


golden masks and silver lies

by dvntldr



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, F/M, Finnick Odair-Centric, Forced Prostitution, Heavy Angst, I’m so sorry, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-17 23:52:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18109058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvntldr/pseuds/dvntldr
Summary: “The first time it happens, Finnick cries.”or, an alternative title:five times finnick has sex and one time finnick is made love to





	1. here goes nothing

The first time it happens, Finnick cries.

 

He can barely keep it together as he staggers out of the taxi—she pats him on the shoulder and tells him _i can’t wait to see you again_ and he smiles back tentatively through the fog in his mind to disguise how badly his lower lip is quivering. His body aches furiously; a smattering of hickeys decorate his collarbone and handprints are burnt into his hips and his eyes burn harshly with unshed tears, but he forces himself to limp up the stairs to his apartment, each painstaking step sending agonising jolts through him.

 

The moment he’s alone, he crumples to his knees and bursts into tears, heart-wrenching sobs that hurt his chest everytime he inhales. He hasn’t cried since he was a child, but he just can’t _stop—_ the tears come hard and fast, like frothing waves breaking over sharp rocks. He’s curled into a small ball; he’s struggling to breathe, the air is cold and he whimpers, he’s shuddering and it’s freezing and he’s aware of just how naked he is and it _hurts_ , it hurts so _much_ he feels like he’s going to die—

 

He sucks in air desperately, glazed eyes unable to make out his surroundings, so he tries to remember where everything is; that table is over _there_ and that vase is next to _here_ and she’s touching him, why are her hands so _cold_ , and it hurts and he’s begging, pleading for something and she laughs and please, _please stop what did i do to deserve this_ , _i’ll do better i swear i will_ -!

 

“I’m sorry-“ The words come tumbling out of his mouth, uncoordinated and inelegant, and he’s honestly not even sure why he’s apologising but he _must_ ’ve done something wrong to deserve this otherwise why would it have happened and “I’m sorry, I-I’m sorry, p-please stop I’m sorry I’m _so sorry_ —“

 

A heaviness settles over him, like something(some _one_ )’s pinning him to the ground, and he _screams,_ struggles, wonders why his lungs have been stolen because that’s obviously why he can’t breathe; why else would he be drowning on _land_ ? He’s never been scared of drowning before, not him, not the District 4 boy who’s spent most of his life in the water but oh _god_ he’s drowning on dry land, something that would only happen to _lucky_ Finnick Odair who won the Games through a pretty face combined with sheer dumb _luck—_

 

He must be dying, he thinks, and a wild, choked half-giggle escapes his mouth—he must be dying, right? The drug he’d been given must’ve been poisoned, or else why would he be feeling like this? He must’ve not performed up to _standard_ and now he’s being punished. Could that drug kill him? Was it because she touched him like that? He’s never been touched _there_ before, did he do something wrong, was he supposed to do something he hadn’t done? He hadn’t wanted it, not then, and especially not now—was he _supposed_ to want it? Would wanting it stop this, stop this pain? If he hadn’t been so afraid, would that have made it better? Was it his fear that had caused the whole thing to go sideways? It must’ve been, it _must_ and now he’s paying the price for his childish _stupidity_ ; _it’ll feel good_ she promised but still he’d been scared, like the stupid little boy he was and he’d ruined _everything_ like _always_ and now he was going to _die—_

 

“I’m _sorry_ ,” He whines again, face streaked with tears, and who is he apologising to, why is he apologising? But obviously he did something wrong, he tried his best but he hadn’t _performed_ and this is all his fault, it’s his fault that he’d dying, isn’t it? The things that used to make up _Finnick Odair_ are shattered, ruined; everytime he moves a fresh burst of agony spreads throughout his frail body and he feels damaged and broken and a little less than nothing, but maybe he’d done enough because _she_ had been smiling at him by the end of it, right?

 

Nevertheless, he spends the night on his knees, in the same position and cries, because perhaps if he is contrite enough he will finally be allowed to stop feeling.

 

  



	2. here it is again (yet it      stings like the first time)

The front door clicks shut behind him as he takes shaking steps to his bathroom. He knows he looks like a mess: his thick sweater isn’t buttoned up all the way, putting purplish-black bruises and love bites on display; his eyes are puffy and reddened from tears, his shoes aren’t laced and he’s so _exhausted_ he’s about to fall asleep standing, but he also knows that it doesn’t matter. He has an appointment at the Remake Centre tomorrow and he’ll be remade into a lie, into the gorgeous Capitol heartthrob that he’s never been, at least not naturally.

 

He steps into the shower and undresses slowly, grimacing as he lifts his arms in order to pull his shirt off. He’d really rather collapse on his bed and just _sleep_ until he’s forced to wake, but on the other hand, if he doesn’t clean himself _right now_ he’s going to vomit the little he’d eaten for breakfast before he’d been whisked away by a client.

 

The heat of the shower calms him ever so slightly, Finnick sighing in quiet relief. His routine is automatic at this point; he washes his mouth out, his hair, his body, repeats it, and then turns the shower off. He used to like showering; he doesn’t know why he doesn’t anymore, why every movement is so mechanical and _dead_ now. Maybe he’d finally gotten sick of showers after the seventh time he’d been fucked in one; he blinks back sudden tears that spring to his eyes, biting his lip so hard he tastes copper.

 

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he takes two steps out of the bathroom and is immediately met with a familiar sight: a white envelope is sitting on his bed, a single rose next to it.

 

There’s a few seconds of stunned silence before the dam breaks and he somehow finds himself on the floor, back pressed flush against the wall as he tucks his head in his knees and sobs, face contorted in despair—he’d _just_ gotten back from a client, he can’t go through another one _today_ ; his stylist hasn’t remade him yet, what is he going to _do?_ He’s not _ready_ , he can’t do this, not now _!_

 

His hands are trembling violently, breathing coming short and rapid and in stuttering bursts as he clamps his hands over his ears so hard it’s almost as if he’s trying to crush his own skull, and maybe he _is_ because he’d rather have a crushed skull than be forced into having sex again, and oh _g_ -

 

He throws up, right there in the carpet. He’s sweating so badly, shaking and convulsing and sobbing, and it _hurts_ , it hurts so _bad_ , he can’t _breathe_ , everything hurts and he’d rather die than have another client today; he’s all alone, nobody’s here he needs help he can’t _breathe_ —

 

…

 

Time passes.

 

Someone presses something to his lips, and he swallows without complaint, without rational thought; the pill goes down his throat, and for a terrifying second, he remembers the drugs _she_ had given him during his first time; intense, delirious panic rises to the surface, but it’s swiftly tempered by an unnatural calm. His mind is hazy; it’s becoming hard to focus. Why was he upset, again?

 

The housekeeper that had given him the pill gives him a strange look before replacing the soiled carpet with a new one; he examines their face a little while longer and realises that the look in their stormy-grey eyes is pure pity.

 

There’s a new sound, the sound of dress shoes as they click against the floor. A glass of water’s presented to him, and he sips at it willingly, wanting to wash out the taste of vomit in his mouth. When _did_ he vomit, anyway?

 

“Finnick?” The voice is low and silky. He blinks, tries to say something but his tongue is thick in his mouth. The man laughs, guiding him onto his bed and tugs the towel from his waist. His slim hips are bruised badly from previous sessions, but the man doesn’t seem to mind, simply undressing himself with an eager look in his eyes that makes Finnick’s insides twist with revulsion; why?

 

“What…” He mumbles out uncomprehendingly as the stranger positions him carefully on his hands and knees, facing the headboard of his bed. A little bit of alarm begins to unfurl in his chest; he tries to pull away with an slurred apology, but his weak efforts don’t faze the other male at all. He whimpers quietly, fresh tears springing to his eyes as the man pushes into him; something’s dripping down his bare thighs. It hurts—he wants to tell the stranger to stop, to slow down, but nothing comes out of his mouth besides a quiet, pained mewl.

 

His limbs spasm, unable to hold his shaking body up any longer; he clutches at the pillows, pain flashing through him as he tries to make sense of what’s going on. Why does it _hurt_ so much? What did he do wrong? He’ll do better, he will, just make the pain _stop_ …

 

“s-s-stop, please…” His voice is weak and inaudible even to his own ears; his pathetic attempt at begging is ignored easily as the man ruts into him, large hands tightening their grip on his hips and flipping him over so he’s right-side up. The beginnings of tears slip down his cheeks; he’s cried more this year than his entire life totalled: fifteen years old and still nothing more than a _child_. His head hurts, both from the drug and the pounding migraine that’s been gnawing at him for hours; he doesn’t know why it hurts so badly, doesn’t know what’s even happening, but the man using him seems pleased so maybe he’s doing something correctly for once in his miserable life?

 

He arches his back with a little whine when his client stiffens behind him with a moan, rough thrusts speeding up; the lewd sounds make Finnick want to bash his head into a wall until either the wall or his skull caves in; he doesn’t know how long more he can hold back the tears, and he’s overthinking things again and the walls are closing in and he’s hyperventilating, he can’t do this, he _can’t—_

 

The man tugs him into a passionate kiss, and he lets himself sink into it, gasping against his client’s mouth; it’s a good distraction. He tries to lose himself in it, but too much is _wrong_ —the man’s lips taste like ashes, the faint sensation of taint dancing across Finnick’s skin. He allows his eyelids to fall shut, but suddenly there are coarse fingertips forcing his eyes open and he inhales sharply, too terrified to move in case the man’s nails get too close to his eyes.

 

“Don’t close your eyes.” He flinches at the gravelly order, simply submitting with a silent nod of compliance. It’s easier to give in than to fight, and it isn’t as if this is the oddest stipulation he’s been given, but something about this one rubs him the wrong way. It’s _his_ eyes—shouldn’t he be allowed to close them? But then again, it’s his body too that’s being pounded into in his bed. It’s not old news, the fact that his body no longer belongs to him.

 

It’s over quickly, and Finnick supposes that he should be grateful, but he feels nothing besides a dull sense of relief. The drug’s effects have seemingly worn off; he’s dazed and disoriented, but it’s nothing he’s not used to. Still, even in his state of semi-coherency, he half-protests miserably as the man takes photo after photo of his debauched frame. He’s aching too much to actually attempt to stop him, and the man makes full use of that knowledge, angling for close-ups in-between his thighs and several candid shots of his face.

 

“Thank you for your time, Mr Odair,” the man purrs once his camera’s flashed for the last time, leaving a shaking, panting Finnick on the bed as he exits the room. It takes hours for him to finally surface from the fugue state he had been in; and that’s when he realises that the landline phone is ringing, has been ringing for a while now. Pressing the receiver to his ear, he nearly drops it when he hears Snow’s voice on the other end. 

 

“ _You were taking rather long to arrive at The Orion, so I took the liberty of sending your client to you. It was rather rude of you, beautiful boy_.” Finnick shudders at the nickname Snow had christened him with when he’d sat on the Victor’s throne at the tender age of fourteen, the nickname Snow had used again when he’d sat Finnick down in his office and carefully explained to him in no uncertain terms that his body wasn’t his to control as he liked any longer. 

 

“I—“ his voice cracks on the word and he almost whimpers, but then he steels himself; he can save the crying for later, for when it’s late at night and there’s nobody to hear him mourn for things long passed. “I-I’m sorry. Did I…”

 

He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. _Did I perform enough? Was I up to standard? Was I enough of a pretty, willing whore for you, to impress you, to_ convince _you_? The silence on the other end of the call is enough of an answer, and Finnick can’t help but feel panicked once more. What can he say that’ll get him out of the mess he created?

 

”Snow—“ He starts, but he’s quickly cut-off by a soft click of the tongue. “ _Sir_.” He wants to laugh, wants to scream, but forces a metaphorical lid on his turmoiling emotions. He can cry about how unfair this is later. 

 

“Sir, _please_ ...Don’t hurt them. Please.” His distressed tone makes Finnick want to cringe, but he can’t help it; who’s going to die for his mistakes? Who’s going to be the _example_ ? Or rather, who’s going to be his punishment? It makes him _sick_  that other human beings’ lives are just ammunition for Snow to use against him, but then again, he hasn’t really given Snow a choice in that regard; it isn’t as if Finnick cares much about himself anymore. He’d happily drop dead given the option, but he knows his death will be taken out on his family—Snow _has_ always been petty that way, when one of his toys stop working.

 

“ _My dear boy, if your begging could convince me to stop, then I would have a year ago_. _As of right now, though, your uncle Aiden’s out on a fishing trip, I do believe._ ” Finnick’s mind blanks. Aiden—the man who’d taught him everything he knew about knots, who’d taught him how to scavenge for food and showed him what foods were poisonous and safe; all information that had saved his life a dozen times over in the arena. Aiden _can’t_ die, not until Finnick has repaid him for everything he’s done.

 

“I’ll do double the amount of clients I have now,” He blurts out, hating himself and wanting to puke at the same time. Almost immediately, Snow’s stony silence turns into an interested, considering one. Finnick Odair, no matter what he may be now—murderer, whore, the Capitol darling—, the one thing he has always been and will always be is a fisherman’s son. He knows how gambles like these work; Snow has taken the bait. Now for him to reel him in. “I won’t disappoint again, sir. I swear.”

  
Snow sighs on the line, sounding both pleased and amused at the same time. “ _I know you won’t.”_ The line goes dead and Finnick curls up against the headboard, shutting his eyes to block out the insults and jeers his mind produces readily for him. He knows he needs to shower again and hit the Remake Centre later, but for now, he allows himself this one luxury of resting—He’s not going to have time to rest after today. Or ever again. He’s just signed away more of his freedom to keep his family safe; the family that hates him. His heart pangs when he remembers the way his mother had jerked away from him in fear when he’d touched her arm to ask if he could help to carry her bags, the way his father sneered at him and called him a whore after seeing him with different women on his arm at every Capitol party. Maybe what hurt the most was his sister telling him that what she saw when she looked at him wasn’t her brother.

 

Tears prick his eyes as he hugs his knees, trying not to think anymore. Maybe he can just...

 

He falls asleep.

 

—

 

Extra:

Finnick changes house. He can’t stand to look at that bed anymore; he’s dismantled every camera he can find in his new one, but he knows there are still some from the way his skin prickles oddly at random times. 

 

He’s just awoken from a nap when he receives a parcel with the strong smell of roses. He frowns—where are the letters? Why a parcel?

 

His questions are answered when he opens it and finds a pair of eyeballs with stormy-grey irises and a single, human tongue.

 

He doesn’t sleep after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me?? updating?? what the fuck


	3. one-trick pony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> johanna mason & finnick odair  
> aka  
> how she put him back together again

 

Finnick misses the sea.

 

He sits on the windowsill, hugging his knees as he stares out at the Capitol, gaudy buildings decked in glittering lights and baubles surrounding him on all sides. The Capitol is nothing like District Four—the reeking, invasive stench of designer perfume that follows him wherever he goes cannot be compared to the comforting briney, salty-sea scent of his home. It’s been a year, five months and two weeks since he’s been home; he misses the shopkeepers and the palm trees and his old childhood home overlooking the wide expanse of the ocean, but for some reason, he misses the sea the most.

 

His love of the sea is in his blood; it’s inherited from generations of his people. When he was young, his father took him on fishing trips all the time—keeping any game they had caught in their nets was technically illegal, but the Peacekeepers could be swayed with a little bit of bribery and luck most of the time. Not many people poached in District Four; the punishments were harsh and unnecessarily cruel, public whippings and executions a constant threat hanging over all of their shoulders like a dark rain-cloud.

 

In winter, starvation was common; the townsfolk tended to try and share food where they could, but at some point, they had to look out for themselves. The news never reported the cause of death as starvation, though—it was always _illicit acts of poaching_ or _lack of shelter_ et cetera et cetera. In spring, it was a different problem; the Capitol’s people came in droves to hunt and throw bedazzled parties on cruise ships worth more than the entirety of District Four despite their having constructed an artificial ocean for that exact purpose—it seemed that even _they_ could tell that no fake could ever compare to the real thing. During that period of time, the rules were especially strict; they’d caught Finnick one or two times with fresh game he’d caught. He’d had to lie his way out of it, all wide-eyes and innocent pleas and _I didn’t know it was illegal, this is my first time and I was hungry, sir, please, they don’t feed us enough_. He’d still received a whipping, but the measly three lashes compared to the regular punishment was a complete blessing, and the scars had been ridden of easily in the Remake Centre when he’d grown older and his life had ended with a slip of paper marked ‘Finnick Odair’.

 

The Orion was a nice-enough place to be sold, he supposed; chandeliers decked the hallways and every room and abstract art decorated the cream walls. The view was something only a Capitol citizen would appreciate, but it was enough. Snow could’ve picked a worse place, he supposed, but it was hard to feel grateful for any little mercies.

 

He swings his legs back over the windowsill, climbing back into the room and leaving the window ajar—it was always smart to have an exit route. He needed to make a guest-of-honor appearance at a Capitol party later; Finnick couldn’t help but snort at the irony of the situation. He was Snow’s prized stallion; confident in his own beauty, well-bred, and everyone who was anyone wanted a ride on _this_ multiple-trick pony. He was the thing that people bragged about at dinner parties and ballroom dances, was the exception in sexualities, the thing that people used to prove their wealth status; ‘ _I finally saved up enough to afford Finnick Odair, you know how expensive he is. I was worried he might not’ve been worth it, but he was an absolute dream, even better in real life than the shows_!’

 

Stifling an inane laugh at his own thoughts, Finnick allows his legs to carry him into the bathroom on autopilot. The makeup he’s wearing is subtle and waterproof; his stylists have obviously learned their lesson from when his tears had ruined their hard work time and time again. The message sent by his makeup was clear: ‘ _this one needs no improvement’_. _How flattering_ , he thinks dryly with a soft snort as he splashes his face with water. _How flattering that I’m nothing more than a pretty sex-slave to be bought and sold to them._

 

The door opens and his heart _lurches_ in terrifying, heart-wrenching panic; it’s not _time_ yet, why is his client early, why why why why _why_ —

 

“Oi, fish-boy!” His trembling hands that had already been clutching the hem of his silvery-white shirt relaxed almost instantly, the moment of pure fear passing quickly and morphing into confusion.

 

“ _Johanna_? What’re you doing here?” He hisses as she stalks into the room, suspicious eyes scanning her unfamiliar surroundings with a hunter’s alert stance. He’s caught himself doing the same thing before, has seen Enobaria hiding weapons in every hidden nook and cranny in her house, has seen Cashmere scout rooms out with a knife in hand before entering them, has even seen old Mags setting up traps in her front porch. The instincts that every Victor has developed in the arena in order to survive aren’t easily erased.

 

Apparently satisfied by what she sees (or trusting that Finnick’s swept the perimeter beforehand—which, ironically, he has), she plops down on the leather sofa with a dramatic groan and a roll of the eyes. “Just wanted to. Do I need a reason?” Which, in Johanna-speak, means that she was concerned and wanted to check up on him.

 

He lets his tense grin soften into something more geniune, smiling hesitantly at his friend as he nods appreciatively. “Thanks, Jo, but I’m fine.” She still seems reluctant to leave, dark-brown eyes sweeping his body in an effort to make sure he isn't hurt in any way. His heart constricts at the subtle display of care; he takes her hand reassuringly with a warm smile. “I could meet you on the roof after...my client. Okay? Don’t worry about me.”

 

She snorts derisively, flicking him on the forehead as she heaves herself off the sofa and towards the front door. “You wish I was worried. But you better be there.” He nods at her and watches as the door shuts.

 

Steeling himself, he glances at the clock as it ticks ominously towards six. It’s almost time.

 

He settles himself in the bedroom and waits.

 

—

 

Finnick grimaces as he takes another trembling step, nearly flinching from the effort. His permanently-designated room in The Orion is on the top floor, with a short staircase leading to the roof. It’s barely ten steps, but even then…

 

His legs quiver when he finally gets to the top; it’s about half-past nine, now, and his body refuses to cooperate with him. He’d rushed a swift shower after his client, not wanting to be exposed and unclean in front of one of his only friends, and yet, despite his scrubbing himself till his skin was tinted a pale red, he still feels filthy and _ruined_ , his skin crawling in disgust at himself. He can still feel her hands on him—given, Harmony Charis _is_ one of his better clients, but that’s not saying much, what with all the sickos and freaks that the Capitol seem to breed in toxic swarms.

 

Pushing open the door and spotting Johanna almost instantly, he fixes a charming smile on his face and strides closer, straining to not let any of his pain be shown on his face. “Looking beautiful as always, Johanna.” He purrs seductively, tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her ear as he leans closer, smug amusement glinting in his eyes.

 

She stares at him for a few moments, and then throws the beer bottle in her hand at him. He dodges easily and clicks his tongue playfully, caressing her cheek and letting out a low, silky chuckle when she slaps his hand away. “Why so aggressive, my dear? Don’t you want to let off some steam?” Why is he acting like this, he wonders. Why is he doing this? But some part of him is determined to keep up its shield, keep the playboy facadé to protect himself; it’s his motto. Just keep moving, just keep dancing, because the moment he stops he’s never going to start again.

 

Johanna snarls and stands. Moving faster than he’d given her credit for, she slams him against the wall so hard he bites his lip accidentally. Blood wells up in his mouth, and instead of wincing, he smiles. “Should’ve guessed you wanted it rough. Lucky for you I’m a masochist.”

 

Her hand comes up and he flinches automatically, hunching his shoulders and preparing for the blow—his mind is calculating feverishly, trying to figure out how hard she’ll punch, how strong she is, how much swelling there’s gonna be—it’s a little early into the foreplay, so she’ll probably go gentler at first, although he’s had some clients who went all-in on the first blow; she’s lean, wiry, shoulders powerfully built, about average height. If she swings upwards, it’ll knock him flat, if she goes for a gut punch he’ll be winded; okay Finnick you can do this don’t panic just keep smiling just keep _smiling_ -

 

She wraps him in a hug and his first instinct is to _run_. Instead, he tenses up, completely stiff in their awkward embrace; her arms stay firmly locked around him and he forces himself to calm down. Maybe she’s in a playful mood? Should he rile her up a little? It’ll hurt more but at least it’ll be over faster.

 

He opens his mouth to taunt her ( _is that the best you’ve got_ ), but before he can say anything, Johanna shushes him decisively. “Shut _up_ and get rid of it.”

 

Get rid of it? He doesn’t understand—what did he do wrong? Was he wrong, then, was she really not into roughplay? He could coax her into a little bit of bondage, perhaps, the kinky ones always liked that. It usually left his wrists reddened and scraped from rope chafing at his skin, usually left him feeling shattered, like yet another piece of his soul’s been stolen, but he’d do anything to be able to be safe and warm in bed with no nightmares—although that last one is a _hell_ of a long shot.

 

“What…?” He whispers weakly, confused; he knows his mask is slipping, and that thought sends him back into a fresh panic; he’s _Finnick Odair,_ he can charm birds out of trees and the sun rises and falls on his shoulders. So why can’t he _think_?

 

“Get rid of the stupid Capitol shit already!” She spits, and he draws back, shaking and uncertain. He’s tired and in pain, his hips ache with a fierce passion and he wants to sleep so badly and everything is so overwhelming, the bright lights wreathing the roof are pulsing to a beat he can’t hear and his eyes are hurting, so he looks down and stumbles backwards and his cheeks are wet and oh _god_ , what’s _happening?_

 

He slumps into the embrace, unable to hold himself upright any longer. He prepares for the floor’s impact, but instead of pulling away, Johanna’s arms tighten around him as she lets him tuck his face in the crook of her neck and cry; she smells like the disgusting designer perfume that coats everything in the Capitol, but just under that is the prickling scent of pine and District Seven. “ _Cariad, cariad_ ,” She’s murmuring, over and over again, and he’s never seen her this gentle, this impossibly caring as she lifts him up and sits on a bench, letting him curl up in her lap and sob into her chest. He would be certain that this was a dream if it hadn’t been for her arms, comfortingly nestled around his shivering frame, and the sound of her beating heart, the gentle _thump_ - _thump_ - _thump_ soothing Finnick immeasurably.

 

The voices in his head, the ever-constant whisper of _fuckupuselessworthlesskillyourself_ , _you deserve this, it’s your fault Dad died, you’re a monster you don’t deserve happiness or kindness or love, this is why your family left you are_  agonising, but maybe what hurts more is the knowledge that it’s all _true_ and that everything, every _one_ would be better off if he’d just died when he was supposed to, but then again _Finnick Odair_ did have a tendency to go toe to toe with death and come out on top, and wasn’t that just _unfortunate_ for everyone involved?

 

As if to physically pull him out of his reverie, her hand cups her face, fingertips calloused and warm, and he shudders slightly but looks up at her through his lashes willingly. The expression on her face is simultaneously concerned and loving, and that’s when he knows he’s seeing the past Johanna. She’d insisted to him over and over again in the past that every trace of her old self was gone, had died the first moment she’d buried her axe in her ally’s skull, but Finnick knows better now. This softer side of her _is_ her old self. He’d never believed her claims until her entire family had died mysteriously in an _accident_ , courtesy of Snow; she’d stayed with him for an entire week, never once saying anything, never moving, only opening her mouth for him to feed and hydrate her. But now…

 

“Finnick.” She doesn’t tell him that _everything will be alright, you’re safe, you’re okay_ , because they don’t lie to each other; never have, never will. Instead, she presses a chaste kiss to his forehead and offers a sad smile. “I’m here.”

 

Finnick smiles through his tears, and their hands meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cariad: little one, little heart  
> —  
> i did this at literally three am exactly so kms if it’s bad,, johanna is fucking ooc but i refuse to believe she was born this jaded  
> also  
> finnick deserves better y’all, pass it on

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a fic i read a really long time ago,,,  
> constructive criticism is always appreciated ;)


End file.
